“The Mantra of Love’s Death” Poems by N. Lopez

Nick Lopez is a Marine Corps veteran and currently works at the VFW National Headquarters in Kansas City, MO. His poems have been published in Veteran’s Voices, Haiku Journal, Line of Advance and most recently his ekphrastic poem “The Scream of War” was published in Volume 11 of Proud to Be: Writing by American Warriors. His personal essay “I am a Coconut” won the Johnson County Public Library, KS “Imagine Your Story” contest. His visual art has been displayed in several exhibitions and galleries in the Kansas City area. He began painting in 2019 as a reflection on his poetry, mental health, and creative process.

The Mantra of Love’s Death

Most of those months
I woke at 3:30 a.m. each night.
Nightmares.
Once, she wakes me mid-scream.
“Wake up, wake up, wake up.”
One of those vivid dreams.
“What’s wrong? What’s happened?” she asks.
I’m paralyzed.
In a whisper, I answer.

“Close your eyes.
Listen to the ebb and flow.
Listen to the Alpha and Omega.
You’re naked, vulnerable.
You’re running down and down.
And down to the bottom of the valley
Of death.
Behind you the sunset paints
The sky golden-red and purple and indigo.
A hawk flies overhead, a snake in its talons.
Just before the black of night.
Desert nights cold.
Out of fear you crawl down and down.
And down into an immeasurable hole.
At the bottom you come to a Missouri
Country road. Blue birds low pitched songs,
Saturate the clear blue sky. Cicadas woo,
Their annual lovers. The grass blades whisper
With the wind. A gravedigger’s shovel,
Cuts the soil of a fresh grave.
The dead decompose in their white oak tombs.
Surrender to the harmony,
Of death’s tranquility.”

She stares, paralyzed.
After hearing my mantra of the dead.
It ends in her tears.
I close my eyes.

Church of Drunk Saints

Divine radiance and the open sign’s neon light,
Illuminates the door to the roadhouse temple.

Enter and become drunken saints,
In Holy Communion with our brothers and sisters.

Incense of cigarette smoke, spilt booze, vomit, piss, and
Disenchantment from the world they have failed, smothers the air.

The barkeep priestess stands behind the bar top pulpit,
Serving the blood of Christ. Her cleric washes the holy grails.

Barflies sing out of harmony in their raspy tones,
To the rock n’ roll hymns playing from the jukebox choir.

With tithe to the collection plate worshipers ask forgiveness,
For sins they have and will commit in their Judaean Desert.

The night grows older, the bar stool pews fill elbow to elbow,
And the gods are summoned with chants of, “Pour me another.”

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